The Alien Warrior King's Accountant - Loki Renard Page 0,38

but I don’t know how long that’s going to last.

I miss Tyrant in a way I have never missed anyone or anything. I miss his world. I miss the rules of his existence.

“I’ve made an appointment with a doctor for you. Go, talk to him, get yourself better,” Mr. Rogers says. “We want you as part of the team.”

“I’m not sick.”

“You are,” Mr. Rogers says. “And the fact you don't think you are just goes to show how very sick you are.”

I never noticed it before, but Mr. Rogers is kind of an asshole. He sprang the whole alien assignment on me with no warning, and now I’m back all the support I get is a soft-peddled, sort your shit out or get the fuck out.

“Sure,” I say, putting on a big smile. “I’ll go see the doctor so I can feel better and do my job to the best of my ability.”

I could not be more fake if I tried, but Mr. Rogers doesn’t notice because he is fake. The kindly air he’s cultivated over the years hides an almost reptilian maliciousness. He’s a jerk. A big jerky jerky jerk face, jerky mc jerkington…

9 The Jerk

“Jerky jerk jerk,” I finish explaining to the doctor.

“Uh huh.”

The doctor has been making notes almost the entire time I have been talking, though I am fairly certain at least half of them have nothing to do with me. He’s probably writing a novel. Ugh. Is there anything grosser than people who are writing novels? No. No, there is not.

“You’re suffering from depression,” the doctor who doesn’t understand anything about me finally tells me. “I have some medication that should help you sleep and focus at work.”

“Great. Medication. Sounds amazing.”

I’m still pretty good at telling people what they want to hear. It’s a real talent.

“Good. So, start with half a tablet and then just work your way up to a dose where you don’t feel anything anymore.”

“Is that how these work?”

“I mean, more or less.”

I’m not actually sure this is a real doctor. This looks more like a dentist’s office than a doctor’s office. There are a lot of tiny mirrors and some other bigger mirrors and needles. A lot of needles.

I don’t think I should ask if he is actually a doctor. He obviously wants me to think he is, so I’ll play along. I’ll take the pills too, which is also weird because they generally give you a script, and not a bottle from a drawer which also contains paperclips and I think a half-eaten sandwich.

“Thanks, doc. Can’t wait to take a whole lot of these. Any side-effects I should worry about?”

“None.”

“None. Excellent.”

I go home and I throw the pills down the toilet, except for one which I keep for research purposes. I have a vague curiosity about what’s in the pills, and I know a guy who works in a pharmacy. He’s married, has three kids, and doesn’t believe in aliens. His name is Derrick, and he works late because he cooks meth in a she-shed out the back of his house.

We have known each other since college. We dated for six months before he met the love of his life and knocked her up. A real romance for the ages, that one. He pretends not to be cooking meth, and she pretends that a pharmacist makes enough to afford twenty acres on the verge of the city limits where she can ride horses.

“Really long time, no see!”

Derrick greets me with a friendly eagerness.

“Too long,” I agree. “I was wondering if you could tell me what’s in this pill?”

He takes it from me and holds it up to the light. Looking past him, I see pink trim and a LIVE, LAUGH, LOVE sign painted on the wall. The she-shed is the perfect place for a meth production business. All the glassware and what not packs down into storage units made from upcycled pallets. It’s very chic.

“I have no idea what this is,” he announces.

“What, really?”

“It’s not a medication I’ve ever dispensed,” he says. “See these silver flecks? They’re quite strange. I don’t think they’re actually organic. And the pill itself has maker marks on the sides here. See?” He points at a thin join seam around the edge of the pill.

“What does that mean?”

“It means these were made in a private laboratory, and when I say private laboratory, I mean these are homebrewed. This is the sort of thing they sell idiots at festivals. Have you been to any festivals lately?”

“I